


Green-Eyed Dragon

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Crack, F/F, Jealousy, Pining, Romance, Some Humor, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 19:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18239330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: Five times Miranda was jealous and one time Andy did something about it.





	Green-Eyed Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thelotuseaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelotuseaters/gifts).



> Aight, my dudes, I'm back!
> 
> This story was requested by the lovely **thelotuseaters** , so I hope you like it and I hope it's not too OOC.
> 
> Enjoy!

Here is something one must understand about Miranda Priestly: she doesn't get jealous. It's simply not an emotion she experiences like everyone else, not when she can and does get everything she wants and lacks nothing.

After all, what does the woman who has everything have to be jealous about?

  
**#1**

That man is _still_ there, by Andrea's desk. Miranda watches from behind her own as he smiles, laughs, cracks some undoubtedly unfunny joke, and her insides catch fire.

She's not an idiot; she knows what flirting looks like, and this is it--in all its blatant and obnoxious glory. Andrea's not an idiot either, yet there she is: giggling at his inane and foolish remarks like some love-sick high-schooler. Miranda's fingers tighten around the pen in her hand.

Is her bar really that low, that she'd go for this sorry excuse for a man? And from Accessories, no less; that department has never produced anything of quality. Tall, dark, and basic--Andrea must know she can do better.

Then again, this is none of Miranda's business and why should she care? Andrea's personal life is just that: personal. If she wants to taint it with a Ken-like parasite, that's her problem.

Miranda's problem is that Prince Charming over there is wasting valuable work hours with incessant and unproductive chatter, and if he wants to still have his job by the end of the day, he better skeddadle.

  
**#2**

Miranda should have a talk with Tom Ford. Or, rather, put him out of business because that dress is... too much.

The fabric--so thin it's almost sheer--clings to Andrea's every curve like a newborn does to its mother, and her cleavage leaves very little to the imagination, made even more pronounced by the way she holds her arms up; a pad in one hand and a pen in the other, scribbling hurriedly in an attempt to keep up with the series of demands.

It's all Miranda can do to keep her gaze away from the eyeful she's receiving. Even Paul seems entranced with the view, and her art director is one of the gayest gays she's ever met throughout her long decades in the fashion industry.

"Yes, Miranda," Andrea concludes with her bright, charming, irritating smile and Miranda has to actually blink back into awareness and lift her eyes _yet again_ from her assistant's chest. She's not sure when she stopped talking.

All she knows is this: Andrea's outfit is unacceptable. If she herself, the queen of self-discipline and resolve, can't keep her eyes away (and it's only because the dress is so provocatively designed and no other reason), then she can only imagine how the rest of her weak and plebeian staff might react. A case in point being fucking Paul.

The notion of everyone within the _Runway_ halls (not to mention the thousands of people littering the streets of Manhattan during Andrea's many errands) ogling the sight she's providing makes Miranda's blood run hot and cold at the same time.

When Andrea turns to leave her office, she hears herself call, "Andrea?" The wide-eyed look of expectation and helpful readiness on Andrea's face is both infuriating and a cause for a shiver to run up her spine.

"That dress is inappropriate for the workplace." Though she's trying for nonchalance, the words part with her lips with dryness and barely concealed disdain, and the proof of their effect is all over Andrea's face: in the fallen features and frowning lips and impossibly wider eyes, threatening to swallow Miranda whole within them.

"Oh, I-I-I'm sorry, I didn't think--" the words tumble out of her mouth before she stops herself, somehow looking both pale and flushed. After a visible gulp, she tries again, "I'll change right away, Mir--"

"That's all," Miranda murmurs and turns back to Paul, who looks to be having a hard time tearing his eyes away from her assistant. _Her_ assistant.

  
**#3**

The Met Gala is one of the most important nights of her year. And Andrea is ruining it.

It has been three different men that she's flirted with by now; batting her eyelashes over Miranda's shoulder or accepting their gallant introductions instead of being invisible and servicing _Miranda_. Not to mention the ever daring dress she selected for the evening: the cleavage is more tasteful than it was on _That Day_ \--Miranda will give her that; she's obviously learned her lesson and this type of event, needless to say, calls for more elegance and grace than the outrageous style intended for the _Runway_ offices--but the garment is still snug; the fabric still light; and along the length of a very long, very shapely leg is a slit that runs from ankle almost to hip bone, attracting almost every eye in the room, including Miranda's, unfortunately. How can it not?

When the reception part of the evening is over, transitioning into the customary pre-dinner mingling, and Miranda no longer needs Andrea's assistance, she sends her away with much relief. Only to find herself continuously searching with her eyes, trying to make out the tall and lean form among the enormous crowd. Almost anxiously, she realizes with chagrin.

And when her gaze does land on a head of brown locks and a slit in a pool of black, she's not alone. Some smarmy guy--no doubt present at the exclusive event due to being some son _of_ \--is chatting Andrea up. And worse: Andrea is engaging, openly and willingly.

He's wearing an _Armani_ tuxedo: black and white, very pricey, incredibly bland. In a room filled with identically dressed men, he fits right in, and his scarce effort in honoring this paramount celebration of fashion tells Miranda a lot about his sense of it--namely, a lack of genuine style and, rather, an eye for the expensive. It's an insult to Andrea and her worth and, even more so, an insult to her boss.

Miranda barely resists the urge to down her champagne in one gulp.

  
**#4**

Miranda could have sworn Andrea was straight. It means nothing to her one way or the other--absolutely not, why would it?--but there has never been anything about her assistant to indicate differently.

Miranda knows lesbians: they lack femininity; they protest her magazine and everything she stands for, and, most importantly, they don't date men. Andrea checks no boxes on that list, not with the ever expanding collection of couture, accessories, and beauty products; not with her tenure as Miranda's (now first) assistant well into its second year, and-- ah, yes, there's the whole flirting with every man that so much as breathes her way thing Miranda, for some reason, can't seem to let go of.

So no, there has never been an indication that Andrea might be attracted to girls, which is why Miranda feels so baffled upon witnessing her wide smile as a tall (taller than her) blonde in scarce clothing tucks a strand of what must be very, very soft hair behind her ear. A tall, blonde, scarcely dressed _woman_.

Andrea wasn't even supposed to be at this photoshoot--no reason for a first assistant to cater to Miranda's immediate needs instead of taking the reins back at the office--but the second assistant, whatever her name is, has shamelessly decided to come down with phneumonia without consulting Miranda, which makes Miranda curse her name all the more for leaving her with the one assistant she can't seem to catch a break from until a new, equally incompetent one shows up to relieve her of this horror show.

Said show to cause Miranda's blood to boil within her veins and her eyes to see red is the model she's about to have a lot of fun firing running a hand down the smooth and creamy expanse of skin at Andrea's arm. Andrea's smile widens and, to Miranda's utter fury, she--extremely unprofessionally--plants a soft kiss on the model's cheek before turning and leaving.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?" Her voice pulls Miranda out of the trance she seems to have sunk into, which is when she realizes that Andrea is now standing right in front of her, still smiling.

Wordlessly, Miranda turns around and walks away.

  
**#5**

Miranda doesn't like the way Patrick Demarchelier looks at Andrea--ogles her, rather. She especially doesn't like the smiles Andrea gives him in return.

"If there's anything else I can do for you, please let me know," she says sweetly, but directs her words toward Patrick--who isn't her boss.

"Oh, I will, ma chérie," he drawls, his eyes going straight to her ass. Miranda barely conceals her revulsion, but Andrea, astoundingly, smirks and leaves her office, putting an unmistakable sway in her hips that neither Miranda nor Demarchelier seems to be able to take their eyes off of.

Has she no shame? Models and "sons of" Miranda can understand, but Patrick? The man is 64-years-old. He's old enough to be her parent! _So are you,_ a voice inside her head pipes up, making her face burn.

"A lovely assistant you have, Miranda," Patrick comments once Andrea is out of sight and Miranda doesn't need to look in a mirror to know her cheeks are turning a few shades darker.

The photographer has never really given her reason to resent him, but now she would gladly wrap her fingers around his throat. Still, she fakes nonchalance when she replies, "I wasn't aware we were here to discuss my assistant."

And something must show on her face, her voice must reveal something, because Patrick's smile turns sly as he leans closer. "Getting jealous, are we?"

Her eyes grow larger, betraying her incredulity at his statement, before she schools her features back into their usual blankness. Then huffs. "Please. What a notion," she rebukes him and hopes she sounds convincing enough. Why wouldn't she? There's no truth behind his words.

Andrea is her assistant. Miranda is her boss. Their relationship is of a professional nature and nothing more. So what if Andrea enjoys an old man's obvious perusal of her body? So what if young and attractive models seek her presence? So what if she wears around Miranda outfits whose cuts and stitches give her eyes more than they've bargained for?

All of those things mean nothing. All of those things mean Andrea's personal life are none of Miranda's business. All of those things mean Miranda doesn't have a chance with--

All of those things mean, Miranda realizes in horror, that she's jealous.

  
**#1**

Andy looks down at her outfit, takes a deep breath, and prays to every god out there that she's not wrong. Here's a little, shocking, impossible, _incredible_ revelation she's come to figure out: Miranda Priestly, Editor-in-Chief of _Runway_ and Ruler of All That Is Evil, is attracted to her. No, not just attracted: she's _jealous_ of every person who so much as deigns to communicate with Andy. Which is quite... wonderful.

Her first tip-off came unexpectedly, bewildering Andy and making her think back on all the other times she must have missed the signs. Because it wasn't until Miranda frighteningly reprimanded her for her outfit, it wasn't until she was in the Closet, changing into something more conservative that it hit Andy that the only problem Miranda had with her attire was that she couldn't keep her eyes off her breasts.

After that, Andy decided to test the waters, just to make sure her mind wasn't playing insane tricks on her (because someone like Miranda Priestly could never be interested in a lowly assistant from Ohio, could they?).

The Met Gala presented the perfect opportunity to put her theory to the test, and if she'd had any doubts before, the pure rage and, well, jealously practically rolling off Miranda in waves as she made eyes at the movers and shakers of New York eviscerated them all.

Following that evening and with the sure knowledge that, to put it plainly, she had the scariest, most powerful, and most alluring person she'd ever met in the palm of her hand, Andy decided to have some fun. To that extent, her outfits became bolder and her flirting more obvious.

It was a dangerous game she was playing; a tight rope to walk on while the fire breathing dragon awaited eagerly below to take revenge, but it was worth it to see Miranda's reactions. It was worth it to make Andy realize that she, too, would not be quite partial to seeing her boss with anybody else. And tonight, the game will come to an end and a new one, Andy hopes, will begin.

Turning the key in the lock while simultaneously balancing the Book, dry cleaning, and two shopping bags, Andy lets herself into the house and, for once, feels grateful that Miranda still hasn't deemed Amy, the new her, "not a psycho." She is also heartened by the light she encounters. Miranda is home and awake.

She hangs the dry cleaning in the closet. She doesn't put the Book on the table. She starts heading toward the den, breathing heavily, squeezing her eyes shut, biting her lip--

"What do you think you're doing here?" a sharp voice brings her to a halt, her eyes open, and she's both anxious and elated to find Miranda in her chair, where she hoped she would.

"Bringing you the Book," she answers, trying to sound confident, and holds the item out for Miranda to take. Miranda doesn't.

"Is that what we're doing now?" she asks rhetorically, her voice dripping with venom. Then, extending her arm sharply, she holds her hand open for the Book, which Andy places there with a smile that's only a little tremulous.

Miranda doesn't verbally order her to leave, doesn't even offer a "That's all," but her shifted attention onto the Book is enough clue for Andy to go. She remains rooted to the spot until Miranda looks up again and her eyes narrow into mere, dark slits. Andy really hopes she hasn't crossed a line, but refuses to back down now. It's too late, anyway.

It's then that Miranda's gaze finally wanders from her face to her feet and Andy forces herself not to shrivel into herself or run her hand up and down the haut couture dress self-consciously. Or even indulgingly because the silk feels exquisute against her skin.

"Where did you get that?" Miranda demands, her tone accusing. It's not what Andy wore throughout the day and they both know she could never afford something like that with her salary.

Show time.

"I borrowed it from the Closet. I hope you don't mind," Andy answers and refuses to sound or look anything other than self-assured even as her heart beats at a thousand miles per minute. "I have a date tonight."

The seconds succeeding her statement feel like hours as she searches Miranda's face intently for a reaction. And, sure enough, despite her best efforts to seem unfazed, the woman's lips purse and her eyebrow lifts. Her tone hardly changes--but for the added bitterness--however, when she asks, "And you're telling me this because...?"

Andy shrugs with a half-hearted smile. "You asked." As Miranda's lips pinch further, though, her smile widens.

"And what is in the bags?" she questions, clearly doing her best to sound bored. It almost works, but Andy knows she's already won the game.

Holding up the items in question, she states, "I'm making dinner for my date." Before Miranda has time to react, Andy's already moving again, heading into the kitchen.

She forces the smile to remain on her face, listens for any telling sounds behind her, refuses to turn around lest she turn to stone. But then she reaches her destination, the bags are on the table, and there's nothing left to do _but_ turn around and meet her fate. With one last breath, she bites her lip and turns on her heel, coming face to face with Miranda.

Standing at the entrance to the kitchen, the woman's arms are folded against her chest, her eyebrow is raised again, and she gives Andy a challenging look. "Well?" she says softly. "What are you waiting for?"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about this fic... so please let me know if you liked it and what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
